Page 228 of A Column of Fire
As Villeneuve struggled to pull his sword out of Lagny’s guts, Sylvie ran along the hallway towards the back of the house. She threw open a door, dashed through, and found herself in a large kitchen.
In Paris, as everywhere, servants did not have the costly luxury of beds, but slept on the kitchen floor, and here a dozen staff were waking up and asking in scared voices what was going on.
Sylvie ran across the room, dodging the waking men and women, and reached the far door. It was locked, and there was no sign of a key.
She spotted an open window – letting air into a crowded room on an August night – and, without further thought, she scrambled through it.
She found herself in a yard with a henhouse and a pigeon loft. At the far side was a high stone wall with a gate. She tried to open the gate and found it locked. She could have wept with frustration and terror.
From the kitchen behind her she heard screams: Villeneuve and his men must have entered the kitchen. She guessed that they would assume all the servants were Protestants like their master – it was the usual way – and they would probably murder them all before coming after her.
She scrambled up onto the roof of the henhouse, causing a cacophony of squawking inside. Between the roof and the yard wall was a gap of only about a yard. Sylvie jumped it. Landing on the narrow top of the wall she lost her balance and fell to her knees painfully, but regained her balance. She dropped down the far side of the wall to a smelly lane.
She ran the length of the lane. It emerged into the rue du Mur. She headed for her warehouse, running as fast as she could. She reached it without seeing anyone. She unlocked the door, slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and locked it.
She was safe. She leaned on the door with her cheek against the wood. She had escaped, she thought with a strange sense of elation. A thought came into her mind that surprised her:I don’t want to die now that I’ve met Ned Willard.
*
WALSINGHAM IMMEDIATELY SAWthe significance of the missing notebook, and assigned Ned and several others to call at the homes of prominent English Protestants in Paris, advising them to take refuge in the embassy. There were not enough horses for all and Ned went on foot. He wore high riding boots and a leather jerkin, despite the warmth of the night, and he was armed with a sword and a dagger with a two-foot-long sharpened blade.
He had completed his task, and was leaving the last of the houses assigned to him, when the bells began to ring.
He was worried about Sylvie. Pierre’s plan required the murders only of aristocratic Protestants, but once men started to kill it was hard to stop them. Two weeks ago Sylvie might have been safe, for her life as a Protestant bookseller had been a well-kept secret, but last week Ned had led Pierre to her home, and now she was probably on Pierre’s list. Ned wanted to bring her and her mother to the embassy for protection.
He made his way to the rue de la Serpente and banged on the door of the shop.
The upstairs window opened and a figure leaned out. ‘Who is it?’ The voice belonged to Isabelle.
‘Ned Willard.’
‘Wait, I’ll come down.’
The window was shut and, a few moments later, the front door was opened. ‘Come inside,’ said Isabelle.
Ned stepped in and she closed the door. A single candle lit the shelves with their ledgers and ink bottles. Ned said: ‘Where’s Sylvie?’
‘Still out warning people.’
‘It’s too late for warnings now.’
‘She may have taken refuge.’
Ned was disappointed and worried. ‘Where do you think she might be?’
‘She was going to work her way north along the rue St Martin and end up at the home of the marquess of Lagny. She might be there. Or . . .’ Isabelle hesitated.
Ned said impatiently: ‘Where else? Her life is in danger!’
‘There’s a secret place. You must swear never to reveal it.’
‘I swear.’
‘In the rue du Mur, two hundred yards from the corner of the rue St Denis, there is an old brick stable with one door and no windows.’
‘Good enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you be all right?’
She opened a drawer in the table and showed him two single-shot pocket pistols with wheel-lock firing mechanisms, plus half a dozen balls and a box of gunpowder. ‘I keep these for when a drunk comes out of the tavern across the street and asks himself how hard it can be to rob a shop run by two women.’
